Cultivating Creativity
by StoryDiva
Summary: After Devil Made Me Do It. Joan dealing with her actions and trying to reach out to Adam. My first in this fandom.


Title: Cultivating Creativity  
  
Author: Storydivagirl (storydivagirl@hotmail.com)  
  
Rating: PG  
  
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters of JoA or have anything to do with the show.simply emulating greatness here.  
  
Author's Notes: I've set up a yahoo update list if people want to know when I update my different stories. You can sign up by sending an email to whiteroom-subscribe@yahoogroups.com  
  
**  
  
Cultivating Creativity  
  
By: Storydivagirl@hotmail.com  
  
Failure of imagination, I muse, is a great curse. I wonder what the outcome would've been if I was more like J.K. Rowling and could spin a story out of nothing. If only I had the ability to think ahead-Adam's sculpture would still be intact and he wouldn't hate me. Who knew spacey Adam's friendship meant so much to me? I mean, he doesn't even know my real name. To him, I'm just a girl named Jane.  
  
Okay, so that's not completely right. I matter to him-mattered anyway-and if the truth be told, I enjoy Adam's adoration. I'm oblivious, not stupid. It makes me feel special, like I can walk on water (though if he who likes to show up at the most inopportune times is listening: don't get any ideas), like being plain 'ole Jane is perfection. The way Adam feels about me is one of those things that makes me think the world isn't so bad. Not that he's my boyfriend, because he's not, and if one more person links my name with Adam's or proceeds to utter the word "boyfriend", I'll destroy something else. And this time that will be my intent, to destroy.  
  
That's what I did alright. I destroyed it, obliterated Adam's most-prized work to date. I keep picturing the look on his face and I think...I'm sure...I know nothing will ever be the same again. I didn't simply ruin Adam's art; I hurt him. It used to be us against them. Now, I'm one of them.  
  
It's funny. I've spent weeks trying to separate myself from the dregs of the socially stunted, convinced that if I had normal friends, I wouldn't feel so abnormal, and here I am, outside the trappings of being Adam's friend, and I miss it. I miss him. And the way he smiled at me-too shy to offer a full-fledged smile, but his lips would curl ever-so-slightly upwards. And how he called me Jane.  
  
Hell must be freezing over: I miss Adam Rove.  
  
It's cool outside. It's that in between time of seasons. The winter thaw has not begun, but to stay warm, it's imperative to curl up in a warm blanket. The sky is awash with Autumn colors-purple, orange, blue. I climb outside onto the small alcove of my bedroom window, taking my journal with me. How many times has my father started to say, "You could break your ne- " only to stop mid-way through and instead state, "Get back in the house." Tonight I doubt he'll do that. I've managed to accomplish the unachievable, convincing the parental units that I've gone completely round the bend. I sit down on frozen metal. Mine is a tangled view of suburbia. The moon is trying to force its way out for the evening. Tree branches and telephone poles creating a square grid that goes for miles and miles. Straggler kids zoom by on bicycles below me, hurrying to make it home for dinner.  
  
A rich tomato smell wafts under my nose. My mother is downstairs stirring her special sauce. It's going to be one of those nights, I can tell. Everyone pretending that life is great and that we've got things to look forward to. We'll make small talk and try not to focus on the large pink elephant donning a "Joan messed up" tutu. I screwed up so badly-everyone thinks I'm a freak of epic proportions and I've got my closest-thing-to-a- best-friend wishing he never met me, convinced that I'm the devil.  
  
The devil.now I get what God was trying to accomplish, I do, but I can't help but thinking this whole situation wreaks of bad, bad vibes. Like by doing what God wanted me to do, I've stumbled into a hole of desperation and.evil. Why didn't I do what God wanted from the get-go? Why did this have to happen to me? Why was I chosen for this stupid privilege of conversations with God?  
  
I guess you could say I'm having a "crisis of faith."  
  
This all started because of some sort of error. Not, you know, the destruction of property with a chair, which I already know was a humongous error in judgment, but this whole talking-to-God-and-doing-his-deeds-thing. God's minions screwed up files when he bellowed for "new prophets" and Joan Girardi was accidentally grabbed instead of Joan Gerald of Topeka, Kansas, who lives a holy life and never lacks imagination. That's the only possible answer, right? It's the only thing that makes sense.that some angel somewhere got things backwards and now I talk to God.  
  
That or I'm mental and who wants to think of themselves as insane? I mean, that makes me like the Unabomber. I wonder if the Unabomber talked to God. I wonder if this is what He was talking about when He mentioned a person's crisis of faith. Crisis this, I think, tossing my journal back inside. I'm in no mood to write. There's no semi-logical way to babble on about wanting to do a good thing for someone on God's behalf by ruining his life. In fact, I'm having trouble making sense of it myself. Failure of imagination, my ass. My life is a disaster and all the faith in God and goodness cannot help me. I want, what I need, is to have a do-over. I want God to grant me a miracle and let me have back today. I would do it all differently. I'd tie Adam to the chair until he came to his senses rather than using it as a weapon. I'd find out who Adam's favorite artist is (hopefully alive) and have him explain that Adam needs to finish high school. Something, anything else.  
  
Hindsight and all that, I guess.  
  
I hug my legs to my chest and rest my head on my knees. I can hear the muffled sounds of my family from the house and slide myself closer to the roof, attempting to distance myself from the worried glances and disappointment radiating off their faces. I wish I could fly away. I don't know where I would go, maybe to Adam's. I'd throw myself at his mercy, beg him for forgiveness, and attempt to explain things. I mean, I know God said that some people have enough of a burden to carry-but if Adam sees angels, what's to keep him from believing I see variations of God?  
  
Tears slide down my cheek, stinging my cheeks where the wind hits them. I've cried so much this afternoon, I didn't think it was possible to do it anymore. I brush the tears away and replay the way Adam dismissed me, declaring that we were never friends, and it's a funny thing because, well, if I'm honest, in the beginning, I didn't really see Adam as friend potential. In case you haven't noticed, he's a bit odd. He was an aquaintence from class, another misfit to fill the void of being completely alone, and somewhere along the way that changed. I'm not sure I realized what Adam meant to me before. I didn't expect it to hurt this much. I don't know what I thought would happen-I really didn't think at all-but not this, not Adam hating me for the rest of my life, and not the entire school looking at me like I'm one bad grade away from shooting up the cafeteria.  
  
I decide that I won't leave my room ever again. It's hard for God to find you or people to whisper behind your back if you're not there. There is safety in my quilt and poster-clad walls. My family might disagree, my mother saying, "This too shall pass", but I can't risk it. It's one thing to be the girl that hangs with the so-called losers and another to be shunned by them as the violent maniac. No, instead, I will remain here. Not talking to God. Cultivating my creativity. I'll have my mother leave the occasional cracker and can of soda outside my door and I'll stay here, learning about life through the Internet.  
  
I hear a knock at my door and I groan, "Go away."  
  
"Dinner," my brother shouts.  
  
"GO AWAY!" I repeat. I crawl back in through the window and shut it. My cheeks are stained a cool pink and my fingers are ice to the touch. I tiptoe to my door and press my ear against the wood, listening to see if I'm alone.  
  
That's when it hits me. An epiphany of sorts. Sure, it's more like, a fruitless quest born out of a guilt and pending loserdom, but let's not split hairs. I scurry over to my window and try to gage a quick escape route. It's always so easy in movies-fictional parents of the big screen know to put a girl's room near a large tree or one of those parapets with vines running its length-but I guess it's another one of those things about having a cop for a father. Our place is locked up tighter than Fort Knox and my only escape route is through one of the doors, both of which are easily viewable from the dining room table.  
  
Must think, must think, must think.  
  
Need a plan, need a plan, need a plan.  
  
I tiptoe to my brother's room downstairs. My brothers are in the middle of some sort of argument about Tomb Raider and my mother is watching the two of them with an expression of half-amusement/half annoyance. My dad is gone, probably called back to work again, and there is an empty plate where I usually sit. I almost go out there, longing for interaction with someone to make me feel a bit better, but I'm not sure I deserve that yet. Maybe I need to suffer in order for things to be right again.  
  
I manage to get into Kevin's room without giving myself away. No one is the wiser. I used to think of Kevin's room as this huge mystery, especially once he started slamming the door shut and demanding privacy. I figured he was up to something and it was in the midst of my Harriet the Spy obsession. I took to sneaking around his one-room kingdom while he was at baseball practice-until he caught me and threatened to tie me to his ceiling fan by my braids. Since then I tend to avoid entering Kevin's room unless expressly permitted and even then I usually hover by the door in case I need to make a quick escape.  
  
I push his window up and step outside into a thicket of green, losing my balance on an overgrown root and hitting the ground full force. I crawl behind a bush in case someone heard me and after a safe amount of time, run down the street. I realize that I probably could've asked my mom if I could go. I doubt she would've stopped me from apologizing to Adam. She was pretty understanding today considering I was suspended and forever branded a "problem". But she might've suggested I wait until I was back in school, maybe give Adam time to cool down, and that was unacceptable. I had to do this now.  
  
I had to.  
  
And Adam had to forgive me.  
  
He had to.  
  
Eventually anyway.  
  
Right?  
  
He had to.  
  
The light is on in Adam's garage, orange and blue sparks illuminating his shadow. I stop a few feet from the door. The air is still and filled with the sound of him hard at work. It doesn't appear any different than the other times I've been here. There aren't any guard dogs or moats or "drop dead Jane" signs hanging from the door. Maybe he'll listen to me. Maybe he'll see that I only had his best interests at heart-if not an inability to handle it like a normal person.  
  
I take a few steps closer to the garage, but stop when silence befalls the area. I wonder if Adam knows I'm out here. I wonder if he'll break me apart and make a sculpture called "Jane sucks". I don't know if I can do this, face him again and see the anger directed at me. Adam isn't a very emotional guy and to know that I've ripped him open, well, it's not the easiest thing in the world to deal with.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
I jump and turn to face a short, stout woman of about sixty. I expect her to beat me with a broom and shoo me away like I'm a squirrel stuck in her rafters. Insead she smiles at me and says, "It's not wise to skulk about a person's property. With times the way they are, you could find yourself in a predicament, Joan."  
  
"And we both know that if I want to find myself in a predicament, I can always count on you to deliver," I respond, realizing this is no ordinary nosey neighboor.  
  
She shrugs and motions for me to follow her next door. I begrudingly walk to the tiny white house next to Adam's. She sits down on a rickety swing and asks, "What are you doing?"  
  
"Don't you know?"  
  
"Of course, but I feel that it's best if I occasionally ask-in case you don't know the answer."  
  
"I had a failure of imagination-like you said I would."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Is that all you have to say for yourself?"  
  
"Would you prefer me to rain down fire and brimestone?"  
  
"You could've provided me with a few options. Now Adam hates me."  
  
"Hate is a strong word. I'm not particularly fond of it-most of the time when people say things like that, they don't really mean it. To hate does a lot to a soul."  
  
"Remember all those conversations we had about allowing me to cultivate some sort of personal life? Now, one of the two people I did socialize with ha-dislikes me a great deal," I reply. I look in the direction of Adam's garage. The murky undertones of a jazz song flutter out the open door. I add, "I didn't know this would be so hard."  
  
"Humans have a great capacity for love-one of my best inventions."  
  
"Love?" I scoff. I shake my head, "I don't love Adam."  
  
"Then why are you here?"  
  
"Because-because he's my friend."  
  
"Yes, and you love him."  
  
"Who knew God liked to taunt people like a five-year-old girl?"  
  
"There are many variations of love, Joan. Love can move mountains-"  
  
"Thank you, Celine."  
  
"-but it can also blind a person. You love him and it's hard to see a person you love hurting, especially when you're the one that caused it."  
  
"Not me, you. You're the one who told me to get rid of his weirdo art."  
  
"Not get rid of, remove from the competition. I rarely look favorably upon destruction-a vicious rumor started with the Old Testament."  
  
"Well, whatever, but I have to explain-"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because this is wrong and I hurt Adam."  
  
"Yes, that's true, but you're not here to alleviate Adam's pain. You're here to let yourself off the hook."  
  
"Is that so wrong?"  
  
"Not necessarily-but what good will it do tonight? He's upset. So are you."  
  
"Shockingly obvious. Are you telling me not to see Adam?"  
  
"Free will. Do what you think is best."  
  
"I think we can both attest to the fact that I lack sound judgement."  
  
"Goodnight Joan," she says, standing up and walking over to the back door of the house.  
  
"That's it? What about the fire and brimstone?" I call out, as she opens the door.  
  
She stops, waves, and says, "This too shall pass" before stepping inside the house.  
  
I stand there dumbfounded. I could still go see Adam-free will and all that jazz-but something stops me. The nagging voice of God in my ear, pointing out that I'm being selfish. If the tables were reversed, if Adam was about to explain to me that the reason he acted like a crazy person was because God talked to him, I would think he was a crazy person. I would freak, lash out at him, and make sure he never bothered me again. Yeah, it might be best to wait a few days to approach the subject of forgiveness and try to resolve things once I'm back in school. I'm one of his lab partners, after all.  
  
I peak in the grimy window of Adam's work shack and watch him, watch the way a guy like Adam works on something he loves. It moves me. It's not like I want to jump his bones or anything, but there is something amazing about witnessing inspiration, like anything is possible in this universe. Even regaining someone's trust and proving that he really is your friend.  
  
I walk away, humming the tune of an old Rolling Stones song, and decide that things will work out in the end. It won't be easy and I don't know how I'll change Adam's mind about me. But I will. Of that I'm sure. After all, I've learned my lesson. For every problem, there are an infinite number of responses, and it's up to me to figure out the most magical one. 


End file.
